Page 99 of Italy Can Bite Me

Old Katie is having an aneurysm right now, but New Katie? She’s yelling “YOLO” and swan-diving into God-knows-what.

Because what’s scarier than telling him?

Not telling him.

And if he doesn’t feel the same?Old Katie echoes in my head.

But what if he does…?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MATTEO

Katiehasturnedmyhotel room upside down. My bed is now her personal command center, with plans spread across the white sheets like battle strategies. And I have to say… I’m into it. She’s fascinating—the way she owns this space, my space, as if she belongs here. It’s past midnight, and I love seeing her sprawled on her stomach, wearing nothing but my button-down shirt.

Dio, she’s brilliant. Focused. Passionate. Her silky, golden hair still mussed from an hour ago when I laid her face down on that bed and she was begging for more(or was that me?). That release was supposed to satisfy me, but watching her work now is revving me up again.

My laptop is overheating on my thighs while my inbox is mocking me. No word from the bank. No miracle solution for my failing company.

BING! BING!

Two new messages come in. One promising to enlarge a part of me that definitely doesn’t need it(trust me)and another hinting that I might have a long-lost uncle in Nigeria who’s very generous with his Bitcoin.Delete.

Katie makes this little sound of triumph, solving whatever coordinating issue she was working on, and she’s the best distraction I could ask for.

I love watching her mind work. The way she organizes—precise but passionate, controlled but creative—is captivating. Every note she writes, every diagram she draws, it’s all infused with fierce determination to make tomorrow perfect for Stan and Rose. My little taskmaster has the biggest heart I’ve ever seen, and it’s doing dangerous things to mine.

She rolls over in my oversized shirt, and I get a fresh peek at her cotton panties. My cock perks up like an overfed German Shepherd catching a whiff of bacon.Down boy. We’ve already christened every surface in this room. Twice.

I can’t resist sliding my hand up the back of her thigh.

“Matteo,” she warns without looking up, “if those magical fingers don’t behave, this seating chart is going to end up with Chester doing the chicken dance next to the cake.”

“Maybe your attention needs a little… redirection.” I let my fingers trail higher, dipping under the waistband of her panties.

She turns her head, fixing me with that librarian-gone-wild look that makes my cock throb.

“Don’t you have your own work to do?”

“You’re too distracting. The way you write those little numbers? Very sexy.”

She snorts. “Do not pretend you find basic addition erotic.”

“Equations while wrapped up in my shirt? Mathematical foreplay.”

I lean over, pretending to study her elaborate diagrams while actually breathing in her scent—strawberries and sex.

My eyes catch on a carefully measured rectangle in the center of her layout. “Is that a dance floor, bellissima?”

“Duh. It’s a party. Obviously there will be dancing.”

“Will you dance with me tomorrow?”

“Trust me, nobody wants to see my dance moves. I can organize circles around people, but dancing? That’s a hard pass. And I blame Aunt Deb for that particular life lesson.”

“Coming from your aunt, this has to be good.” I shift closer, drawn to her like gravity. “Tell me.”

“Fine. But this is trauma-level embarrassing. You have to promise not to laugh.”

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